


Ordinary

by kagirinai



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Timeskip, Vulnerable Levi, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 20:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18373604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagirinai/pseuds/kagirinai
Summary: So warm, so warm when he’s terribly cold. He’s been so cold.Or the one in which a too ordinary night turns into an unforeseen scenario as Levi reluctantly learns how to lay his defenses down





	Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> This work ideally belongs to a collection of one-shots that lay abandoned in my computer as I am yet not confident enough to post them all!
> 
> In this verse, set after the time-skip, Eren and Levi have already been in a physical relationship for some time.  
> Due to their situation and lifestyle, despite harboring feelings for each other, they try to keep it just on the casual side of things.
> 
> The events of this fiction occur after Levi's decision to stop seeing each other as he feels they're in too deep.  
> Enjoy the implications of his choice and please let me know if the story somehow resonated with you.

Ordinary.

Their lives have fallen pretty much into the ordinary.Whether this turn of events should be considered reassuring or, rather, terrifying, is a question nobody indulges in. 

It is only human nature, after all. 

To make a home from a lear, to find a refuge amidst the tempest. 

And there’s more pressing matters anyway, always something more urgent worth dedicating one’s limited time to. No time for idle wondering, even less for unhelpful emotions. 

Which has led them to the hardly refined but still satisfying enough conclusion shared by most of them in tacit understanding. That is, if the abnormal is all one is faced with, all in all, it isn’t that surprising to be able to carve out a slice of normalcy within. Instinctual, one might argue.

It is only human nature, after all.

To observe the reflection on grey surfaces to catch sight of the slightest hint of hues, no matter how faded, how pale.To look for the veiled sun hiding behind the clouds. For the light feebly painting the humid and rainy sky in watercolours. Red warm speckles illuminating the soil at sunset.The first beams of lights caressing the surface of the sea in the first hours of the morning. Bright stars timidly shimmering against the night sky.

It is only the passing of time, perhaps, that turns gestures into habits and emotions into state of minds.

That creates a routine of their own.A cruel one, indeed, but still one. A reassuring day, everyday, for those who don’t have the luxury of tomorrow. 

Training had been, unsurprisingly, the first to have fallen into a schedule. Modest meals had then quickly followed, consumed with no appetite and even less time, stolen between repetitive discussions and exhausting experiments. Stale food, nonetheless familiar, reassuring.

Eventually leading to fazed sleep. Fighting enemies in the morning and nightmares in the dark, insomnia taking over before long.

A pattern that had established itself in an unreal short amount of time. One that couldn’t seem to be broken.

Cold sweats, expeditions, and all they entail.It had been blood at first, then hurt and loss together.He clearly remembers the order in which they had become ordinary to his eyes, some twisted game played by his mind, if he has to guess. He was never blessed with a good memory, but these details he remembers.Laughable.

Though it should be frightening, really. How normal it feels. Predictable. Ominously so.And off it goes, in a circle of mechanical gestures that leave barely no time to think or catch one’s breath.

Not that he’d be inclined to do so. 

Thinking is scary, he realised.He had never really thought so, before. Never had to, never had been one for thinking. Not one for overthinking, especially.He’d always tended to act, to feel.To move forward, in any case. The very idea of stopping to reflect never having really touched his mind, before.

Lately, however. It's all he can seem to do.And the places his mind can take him to, oh, absolutely horrifying, places so dark,so far away.Distant enough to have him forgetting the reality of his feet firmly planted on the ground.

That is why, no matter how disturbing, it’s not bad to have a routine.His own is mostly similar to everyone else. A bit more tiring, perhaps.

Perhaps, a whole lot more. It does exhaust him physically and mentally, leaving him drained most of the time. Which is not bad, either. He can just lose himself afterwards.In sleep, or in warm arms.The last one, at least, still possible back when late night visits to one private room used to still be a part, a vital one, of this everyday's routine. That would be two, maybe three weeks ago.That’s how his mind registers it in any case, though he himself wouldn’t put his finger on it.Can’t really be sure when one day fades into the other anyway.

And time is always been such an inconsistent matter to him, after all.He could have never been sure of it, could never trust it. How could he, how, when some seconds seemingly stretch into never ending hours and months rush quickly before them in a bat of eye?

When some days never seem to come to an end.

  _When those nights passed by so fast and all I wanted was to hold on to you just a bit more._

Some say it’s subjective. A matter of perception. With that, he can agree. Though he’d rather call it deceiving, for all he’s ever felt because of it is nothing but betrayal. Either way, he can’t define it, nor does he feel like he can ever rely on it. Doesn’t even trust it to begin with. 

That is why, if asked how long it took him to process the situation appearing right in front of his eyes, he’s not sure he could tell.Longer than usual, yes, that he would be able to say, the reason being the scenery exceeding anything he’d come to know until then.

Exceeding the ordinary.

If he were to say, now, he’d probably say it took him a month or two to muster up the courage to knock once again at the heavy wooden door standing the end of the farther east corridor, though he knows that can’t be, for only two or three weeks have supposedly gone by.

A few minutes, he’d say if he had to, of silently standing in front of it, some more and maybe yet a bit more to notice it being slightly open.

A few more spent waiting for an answer that never comes, another few to wonder, doubt, to finally take a resolution.

Then only a few seconds to step into the room, and just a few more, really, for his eyes to get accustomed to the unusual darkness, the pale rays of moonlight providing no aid.

Ten, maybe twelve seconds to make out the contours of scattered objects lying all around.On the bed, on the desk, mostly thrown on the floor.

_The floor_

Only a moment to register the silhouette sitting on it. In front of the leather sofa, back curved inwards, barely leaning against the surface.

Only one second for anxiety to settle violently in his chest.Growing, stronger when met by tight lips and unmoving eyes, fixed on the ground. Head lying down as if unbearably heavy, resting between hunched shoulders.

_Hunched_

Never seen him like that.Unusual, all of it.

Arms left lying abandoned on bent knees. As if incapable of moving.Hair falling disorderly onto his damp forehead. Hiding his features.

He sits, in silence.Without a look, or a sound, without a cry or a sob.

Nothing.For how long, he doesn’t know.

A heavy silence embraces the room, some kind of dark aura that seems to have caught hold of him not to let go. He’s almost afraid to break it.

For he looks dreadful, and serene. Impossibly calm and broken, at the same time. 

As if sleeping. As if falling.

He can’t possibly know how to deal with this.But the details, oh, the details.He gets caught up in those. Always. Low shoulders, a few books on the floor, the semi opened door.

He could swear that less than three seconds pass before his voice weakly materialise the thoughts crossing his mind in an underwhelming

 “You okay?”

  _Please_.

His skin prickles nervously, mind cringing at the utter uselessness of the words he just offered, at his own strained tone, at the feelings scorching his throat without seemingly being able to make their way out. 

_Don’t shut me off._

“I can’t find it.”

  _Please_.

“What is it?”

 “Where it comes from. The source.”

He patiently waits for him to continue, having no idea what this is about.

But the other swallows, instead, keeps on staring down, shuts his lips tight again and doesn't speak anymore.

“The source?”

He prompts, as he sees him abruptly running his slender fingers through his hair, combing them backwards just to swallow hard once more.

_Frustration._

“Mould”

 A pause. Then a pronounced sigh.

“Mould. It’s been… weeks, it’s…”

“...it keeps on… and I’ve cleaned it, but.”

“...it keeps…”

Swallows down for what’s now the third time.

_Trying to compose yourself._

“...I’ve been... looking for it. The source, I mean.”

“I can’t find it. Where it comes from. I’ve been…”

“...I’ve been looking for it, I’ve been cleaning, and it’s not there, it’s not. I looked, I… looked fucking everywhere.”

He stops again. Eight, nine, ten seconds ticking away, this time.

Silence. 

“Okay. I got it.”

_I got it._

_I got you._

 

 ——————-

Ordinary.

He had finished up his dinner, a meagre one - _never really cared for food_ \- very quickly - _more a chore than anything else_ \- as usual. 

Focusing, as usual, on tuning out the overeager and too loud voices all around him with the too little energy left in him at the end of the day.

Not that he’d usually have more. 

Waking up exhausted from restless sleep had become the norm, an exceptionally welcomed one since it at least meant he got to rest his tired eyes for a bit.The alternative contemplating endless hours of reading, cleaning or simply staring outside the window until the first lights of the morning.

It’s not ideal of course, but then again, he doesn’t mind the night.

It’s quiet, in the night.He doesn’t have to mind anything, or anyone.Not orders, not papers or strategies.

Doesn’t need to keep up. 

He’d say it is the closest he’ll ever be to relax.Not perfect, far from it, but it’s something.

A dimension of his own.

He’s long convinced himself that it will do.Habits, for how detestable, are not bad.Quite the opposite, and he’ll take what he can get. He can’t really remember the last time he felt at peace anyway.  _Good_ , as they say.

_Though your skin felt good on mine_

He has long accepted that _good_ is not a reality for them, especially not for himself.Never been.

And he’s not one for pining after illusions.

To be realistic is one of those habits that has been instilled in him from a too young age. There is no point in indulging in fantasies, nothing to be gained from basking in feelings and sensations. They only set you back, that’s what he’d been taught.

Not that he’d dared to think differently.

That had been a lesson he had caught up on fairly soon. No amount of tears had been capable of bringing him food in times of need, after all. No amount of love had ever been even close to save his mother. To keep him warm at night in a cold and void room.

Thus he had learnt the harsh but nonetheless true predicament despite himself, had it beaten into him time after time, more often than not by means of actual pain inflicted in the shadows of dark streets.

For where he grew up, to be vulnerable meant only trouble.

Feelings are mostly useless there and more than anything, simply dangerous.They can get you hurt in more ways than simply emotionally.

Well, it’s not like he’s above it all. He is human, too, after all. 

His mother used to say he’d been blessed with a precious and extraordinary sensitivity.He can agree with that, despite he’d rather use the word cursed. To counter it had indeed become an everyday effort, an exhausting battle he’d gladly give up on if only he could.

A constant struggle.

One he had somehow managed to ease with green eyes and soft lips.Once, twice. Then he had lost count. 

His most recent habit.He _is_ a man of habit, after all.It couldn’t be helped.

The most despicable one, and the best he’d ever had at the same time.The exception, for it’s the only one he has indeed somehow managed to break.

It was to be expected.Only a fool would fight feelings with feelings.

It’s not like he’d been left void of things to do. He had gone about his days as usual.Life was hard, still very hard, but not worse than usual.

Perhaps it had been a bit harder than usual.

The distant thought has been bugging him, lately.Yes, he had noticed that, yes, lately - _two, three weeks now_ \- everything seemed to have become a bit _more_. Footsteps on stone pavements resound a little louder in his ears, the rays of sunlight filtering through the glass shine a bit brighter, somehow disturbing his eyes. Waking up, training, both sleeping and staying awake have become somewhat harder.

He has found himself growing more tired, more annoyed, more restless, more, _more_.

But it’s not something worth paying too much attention to, no, it will probably go away on its own.

_Who knows what the damn deal is about anyway_

He retires to his quarters, a oil lantern and a cup of tea in his hands.Paperwork awaiting him, as usual.

To close the door to his room has always had a soothing effect on him, as if it could really allow him to leave the world outside behind the wood.

It’s not like he particularly enjoys being alone. Being around people, however, can get so tiring for him.

Tiring, so tiring. And he is so tired tonight, very much so.

_More than usual_

But still, he proceeds with his usual routine.

Like every other night, he lays out the white pages in order on the mahogany desk, skims through them, fills them out in black ink. Sets out to wipe clean the surfaces on which dust has once again deposited.

Like every other week, he changes thesheets laying untouched upon the spacious bed.

Not that he’d used them lately, or it, for a matter of fact.

_Too large. It_ ’ _s too large._

Like every other time, he braces himself when it arrives. Panic, crushing over him out of nowhere like a tidal wave. Grasping at his chest, pressing, making his head dizzy and his blood pump hard through his veins, heart clenching, a faint buzz distantly ringing in his ears.

_Breathe. Breathe._

He had fought it, at first.

The first times, barely understanding any of it, he had countered it like he would with an enemy, violently crashed against it.

He would have learnt with experience how simply letting it wash over him, whatever it was, worked most effectively.

On his own, he had learnt how to hold on, wait it out.He would have understood with time how to pick up the pieces afterwards.

Practice makes perfect. It came at him for no apparent reason, the last piece that made up his ordinary.

Though this too, like the rest, felt a bit more, tonight.

And he was tired.So tired.

_Breathe_.

 

  

He wouldn’t be able to say just for how long he had been sitting on the floor before hearing his voice.Distant, muffled but still momentarily creeping over the loud sound of his own heart, still thumping in his chest.

Some part of him unrealistically aware of how pathetic he must appear right now. Bare, naked, a bit _more_. A bit more than when laying together, fingers tangled and gripping on white sheets.

In front of him, after all this time. 

_Why now._

 

 

 

“I got it.”

He says, and it’s a whisper, a warm huff against his trembling skin.

Close, so close.

And tender.Mellow, like honey.

Soft, unbearably so.

He feels his heart swelling and aching all over, in places he did not think possible.

All the right ones.Wrong, very wrong.

And yet, the knowledge is not enough to stop them from dangerously prickling in the corner of his eyes, warm tears fighting their way out as he sinks his head lower, hides deeper between his legs and focuses all his energy on keeping them in, keeping it in, and keep _him_ out, keeping all of it out, the low voice caressing his soul and the impossibly green eyes washing over him, carefully looking at him.

He _feels_ them, close, just inches away.

He must have kneeled to reach him, and the thought sends once again an aching, burning sensation straight to his heart in a mix of irritation, frustration and something else he can’t quite name.

_Why do you stay. Why do you care._

He breathes, again, keeps still and the world stops moving. Swallows back the wetness in his eyes, keeps his head sunken down for stability.

Keeps it down out of fear.He’s not sure what he’d find if he were to meet those eyes - _still on him_ , he feels them - but whatever it is he’s sure he does not want to see it.

Be it pity, disappointment, confusion.

He hates it.

_Why. Go away._

What _would_ he even find there, if he dared look back? 

Would he think he failed him? Would he be disappointed, would he feel betrayed, even?

Would he walk away, then, or worse, feel obliged to stay. And ask questions to which he does not have answers, or demand reasons, an explanation of some sorts, would he look at him, _unbearable,_ look at him so intensely, intense as every other thing he does, or would he look away, _unbearable, unbearable,_ incapable of holding his eyes, overwhelmed, or worse, _worse_ , unwilling to, unwilling and just out of reach, just…

It’s the tentative touch of delicate fingers on his right arm that gently but firmly pulls him away from his spiralling thoughts. Away from the darkness that is his own mind, a fine thread lacing him back to reality.

He lets himself be guided down, lets his arm be gently laid on the floor beside his leg.Then feels them again, those fingers, brushing over the back of his hand.

_Warm. Nice._

His mind somehow empties all at once, registering only the soothing circles that are being drawn on his thumb, traced so softly, feathery touches nuzzling his skin in a hushed, relentless rhythm.

They warm up his hand, ever so cold, and somewhere else inside his chest, usually colder still.The feel of skin on skin, of _his_ skin, always so warm against his own.

So warm, so warm when he’s terribly cold. He’s been so cold.

Every delicate stroke caressing him all over in some sort of secret incantation. His breath calmly aligning to each and one of them, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

 

For a while there’s nothing.

No words, no sounds. No thoughts.

Only the reassuring presence now leaning against his shoulder, steadily locking away the tension still lying in his muscles, slowly, breath by breath. 

————-

 

“Hey.”

He tries after what feels like hours, barely a whisper, muffled against the fabric of his clothes. A feeble attempt, unsurprisingly met with silence.

“What’s wrong?”

Soft, impossibly soft, hushed against the pale, bare skin of his collarbone. He lets his lips brush over it and waits.

But no answer comes this time, either. Nor does the other move, not an inch. Not for a long time.  

“Come on. We’re freezing our asses off. Let’s go to bed.”

As the other remains still, once again, he begins to resign himself to the possibility that he just won’t be able to reach him.

Not that he’d been particularly hopeful. He knows his own limits painfully well.

That is when he suddenly feels the other's forehead slowly moving against his shoulder, shaking no, face still buried.

“No?”

“I can’t.”

And it’s rough, low. A bit unsteady.

Pained, though he can tell he’s trying his best to hide it.

Always so proud.

_So stubborn._ _Let me help._

“Okay.”

He simply answers, pauses, then swallows. He’s not sure what to say.

Instead, he tightens the grip on the hand under his own, continues to slowly trace the faint trail of pale veins with slightly trembling fingertips. Tries again.

 “Why not?”

“…I can’t.”

 A pause.

“…not with this mess, anyway.”

“I’ll clean up. You go to bed.”

But he shakes his head again, a bit stronger this time, perhaps just a bit more desperate.

_So stubborn._ _Rely on me._

And all of a sudden, he finds it impossible to remain still.The voice in his head screaming of frustration, cursing at the helplessness of the situation, _at his own_.

He feels like bursting, like screaming and crying. Feels like voicing all the feelings the other has been holding back.

That he must have always been holding back for who knows how long.

He can’t leave him like that, can’t leave it at this. Move, he’s got to move. They both have to.Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. He’s got to do something.

“I’ll clean up.”

He repeats as he makes his mind up.

Shifts his legs and begins to move, tries, for he feels the grip on his hand tighten almost imperceptibly, holding him down. Soft, he might have even doubted it if the gesture had not been followed by his voice, less steady this time, a rare edge to it sending chills right through his spine. Making him stop abruptly.

“…No.”

He swallows deeply, and he can tell he’s squeezing his eyes shut from the lines forming around them at the side, hidden behind the damp black hair distractedly falling over. He’s been sweating.

“…Fuck.”

He hears him sighing imperceptibly, breath slightly accelerated. Can still feel calloused fingers pressing down at his wrist. 

He resumes his former position, lays his legs once again on the cold pavement. Figures waiting might sometimes be the answer.

He’s not used to it, no. He’s always lived believing in action being the key.Always projecting himself forward at full speed.Whether that means to keep on moving or simply to escape, not to let reality catch up with him, he can’t tell. 

But there’s something in this room. A kind of aura encompassing them, _this_ night.

He finds it easy to wait. It feels right.

And it comes almost too easy, to listen to the unsteady breath beside him, to follow the way it responds to the soft touches he keeps on laying on his skin. To hear it change, slow down.

He closes his eyes, and simply listens. 

 

 

 

It comes after a while.

“You gonna stay like this all night?”

Close to a scoff, tone as proud as ever. Almost a challenge, he’d say, if he didn’t know better.

If his face wasn’t still half-buried in his arm.

_You are not fooling anyone_

“If you need me to.”

_I could honestly stay like this for the brief rest of our lives, anyway_

He doesn’t respond to that. Not for a long time.

 

 

It’s only after both of their muscles have long grown sore that he speaks again.He can feel his own eyelids heavy with sleep, and he just knows he can’t be the only one who is this tired.

“You need to sleep. You’ll feel better.”

He hears him humming absently. His position, however, does not change in the slightest.

“Come on, go to bed?”

That somehow does it. He’s finally raising his head, looking around the room with tired eyes, a dull expression with a slight trace of confusion.

“I’ll clean up. I told you. It’s fine. Come on.” 

“I’ll wait here.”

And he simply knows, sees it in his eyes that there’s just no point in insisting.

“I’ll be quick.”

He stands on unsteady legs, slowly makes his way around the room, trying to make as less noise as possible.

He peeks out the window while passing it. The moon is still high in the sky, sunrise should still be a couple hours away, three if they’re lucky.

He just wants to get this done as quickly as possible. Needs to get back as soon as possible.

Still, it takes quite a while.

There is a lot scattered on the floor, and the fact that he can actually feel his heart clenching as he sets to put papers, ink and clothes back in place does not help him being faster.

Each a proof of a vulnerability that had taken him aback with its force. So deep, so sudden.

A vulnerability he would have never expected to be shown to him, in the first place.But then again, there’s a lot of things he’d never expected to be allowed to see.

He can never tell, when it comes to him.

He can never make sense of how he crawled his way through to begin with, though he has given it a lot of thought. 

Sometimes he’s not even sure he’s made it through at all. 

He’d ask for more, confident of being able to read him, to see him, just to be faced with a closed door and words that stay in his ears and painfully sting his eyes.But then, he’d come around, every time, expecting to find resistance, to be pushed away and denied, and instead he’d be allowed to kiss away their sorrows.

Tonight, too. He had expected to find everything but this.

There seems to be some sort of invisible pattern, he realizes, known only to him, and then again perhaps not even so.

An intricate thread of pulling in and away, showing a bit just to abruptly close off again. Or simply hiding, just to be found. 

A habit of their own.

As he folds the last papers and arranges them orderly on the mahogany desk, he feels him standing behind him, feet a bit insecure as they make their way towards the bed.

He follows.Sits gently on the mattress, in the space he’s been left beside him, a clear invitation to share it.

Rare. He usually has to reclaim his way to it.

He’s lying down, eyes only half-closed, facing the ceiling.Can feel him shiver a bit as he caresses his forehead lightly with a thumb, index delicately brushing away the hair still falling sparse on it, slowly. Proceeds to cover them both with the blanket, though he suspects cold is not the reason for the chills on the soft skin he’s caressing. Still, being warm helps.

The tension in his shoulders doesn’t take long to completely disappear. He can feel him, relaxing into the mattress with every caress.Observes his eyelids, falling closed for only a second, heavy with sleep, only to fight and hesitantly open again. An internal battle interrupted only when he turns his head to the side, finally allowing their eyes to meet for the first time that night. 

_You look so tired_

“What are you doing?”

His voice rough with sleep, a whisper.

“Taking care of you.”

He whispers back.

“I see.”

He turns on his back again to face the ceiling, but doesn’t move away.Instead, he keeps close, lets himself be held.Lets his eyes fall closed under the touch of his hands, breath slowing down as sleep reclaims him.

Quiet, deep breath, finally calm. A sound so relaxing he’s not sure for how long he keeps on stroking his hair before drifting off himself.

Last thing he remembers is the peaceful expression painted on his sleeping face, beside him.And his own heart swelling with tenderness. 

   


End file.
